‘Wissen Sie,’ he said, with an insulting patience and condescension in his voice, ‘that horse is a certain FORM, part of a whole form. It is part of a work of art, a piece of form. It is not a picture of a friendly horse to which you give a lump of sugar, do you see—it is part of a work of art, it has no relation to anything outside that work of art.’
Ursula, angry at being treated quite so insultingly DE HAUT EN BAS, from the height of esoteric art to the depth of general exoteric amateurism, replied, hotly, flushing and lifting her face.
‘But it IS a picture of a horse, nevertheless.’
He lifted his shoulders in another shrug.
‘As you like—it is not a picture of a cow, certainly.’
Here Gudrun broke in, flushed and brilliant, anxious to avoid any more of this, any more of Ursula’s foolish persistence in giving herself away.
‘What do you mean by “it is a picture of a horse?”’ she cried at her sister. ‘What do you mean by a horse? You mean an idea you have in YOUR head, and which you want to see represented. There is another idea altogether, quite another idea. Call it a horse if you like, or say it is not a horse. I have just as much right to say that YOUR horse isn’t a horse, that it is a falsity of your own make-up.’
Ursula wavered, baffled. Then her words came.
‘But why does he have this idea of a horse?’ she said. ‘I know it is his idea. I know it is a picture of himself, really—’
Loerke snorted with rage.
‘A picture of myself!’ he repeated, in derision. ‘Wissen sie, gnadige Frau, that is a Kunstwerk, a work of art. It is a work of art, it is a picture of nothing, of absolutely nothing. It has nothing to do with anything but itself, it has no relation with the everyday world of this and other, there is no connection between them, absolutely none, they are two different and distinct planes of existence, and to translate one into the other is worse than foolish, it is a darkening of all counsel, a making confusion everywhere. Do you see, you MUST NOT confuse the relative work of action, with the absolute world of art. That you MUST NOT DO.’
‘That is quite true,’ cried Gudrun, let loose in a sort of rhapsody. ‘The two things are quite and permanently apart, they have NOTHING to do with one another. I and my art, they have nothing to do with each other. My art stands in another world, I am in this world.’
Her face was flushed and transfigured. Loerke who was sitting with his head ducked, like some creature at bay, looked up at her, swiftly, almost furtively, and murmured,
‘Ja—so ist es, so ist es.’
Ursula was silent after this outburst. She was furious. She wanted to poke a hole into them both.
‘It isn’t a word of it true, of all this harangue you have made me,’ she replied flatly. ‘The horse is a picture of your own stock, stupid brutality, and the girl was a girl you loved and tortured and then ignored.’
He looked up at her with a small smile of contempt in his eyes. He would not trouble to answer this last charge.
Gudrun too was silent in exasperated contempt. Ursula WAS such an insufferable outsider, rushing in where angels would fear to tread. But then—fools must be suffered, if not gladly.
But Ursula was persistent too.
‘As for your world of art and your world of reality,’ she replied, ‘you have to separate the two, because you can’t bear to know what you are. You can’t bear to realise what a stock, stiff, hide-bound brutality you ARE really, so you say “it’s the world of art.” The world of art is only the truth about the real world, that’s all—but you are too far gone to see it.’
She was white and trembling, intent. Gudrun and Loerke sat in stiff dislike of her. Gerald too, who had come up in the beginning of the speech, stood looking at her in complete disapproval and opposition. He felt she was undignified, she put a sort of vulgarity over the esotericism which gave man his last distinction. He joined his forces with the other two. They all three wanted her to go away. But she sat on in silence, her soul weeping, throbbing violently, her fingers twisting her handkerchief.
The others maintained a dead silence, letting the display of Ursula’s obtrusiveness pass by. Then Gudrun asked, in a voice that was quite cool and casual, as if resuming a casual conversation:
‘Was the girl a model?’
‘Nein, sie war kein Modell. Sie war eine kleine Malschulerin.’
‘An art-student!’ replied Gudrun.
And how the situation revealed itself to her! She saw the girl art-student, unformed and of pernicious recklessness, too young, her straight flaxen hair cut short, hanging just into her neck, curving inwards slightly, because it was rather thick; and Loerke, the well-known master-sculptor, and the girl, probably well-brought-up, and of good family, thinking herself so great to be his mistress. Oh how well she knew the common callousness of it all. Dresden, Paris, or London, what did it matter? She knew it.
‘Where is she now?’ Ursula asked.
Loerke raised his shoulders, to convey his complete ignorance and indifference.
‘That is already six years ago,’ he said; ‘she will be twenty-three years old, no more good.’
Gerald had picked up the picture and was looking at it. It attracted him also. He saw on the pedestal, that the piece was called ‘Lady Godiva.’
‘But this isn’t Lady Godiva,’ he said, smiling good-humouredly. ‘She was the middle-aged wife of some Earl or other, who covered herself with her long hair.’
‘A la Maud Allan,’ said Gudrun with a mocking grimace.
